100 Days of Writing - 19
I finally finished Stephen King's On Writing tonight. Took me 20 days to get through it, which, by my standards, is a pretty short amount of time. I'm happy, proud even, that I finished it.
Some great tools are found in the book, and the thing that will stay with me is how important reading is- you've got to read more to write more.
It's making me think about my reading habits; how I tend to lean on non-fiction and self-help books, or at least I have for the bulk of my adulthood. I'm someone who ruminates about the meaning of life and how to achieve happiness. I feel validated when I read about others' struggles and feel inspired when they move past their shortcomings.
I suppose there are enough stories out there that I could find the same sense of satisfaction among some fiction titles, but this worry-wart doesn't seek it out enough. I often feel I can't concentrate or forget pretty quickly when I attempt to read a book outside my comfort zone. Mystic River is the only fiction book that I devoured within a few days, and that was a long time ago. Crime stories, why don't I just read more? It's like fiction freaks me out for some reason, but really it points to this thick head I have about stories.
I constantly feel pulled in multiple directions; the comedian in me, the empath in me, the storyteller in me are always imagining, something. I seem to only write from experience, from real life, and rarely travel into a space beyond what I've known or seen. Science Fiction writers must have the most interesting brains.
My world is the real world, and within it, there are enough unknowns that creativity can fill in the blanks. At least it has for me, and has offered up opportunities to explore its depths and its brightest but also darkest corners. I suppose fiction lives there too.
Saturday thoughts,
Katie
Some great tools are found in the book, and the thing that will stay with me is how important reading is- you've got to read more to write more.
It's making me think about my reading habits; how I tend to lean on non-fiction and self-help books, or at least I have for the bulk of my adulthood. I'm someone who ruminates about the meaning of life and how to achieve happiness. I feel validated when I read about others' struggles and feel inspired when they move past their shortcomings.
I suppose there are enough stories out there that I could find the same sense of satisfaction among some fiction titles, but this worry-wart doesn't seek it out enough. I often feel I can't concentrate or forget pretty quickly when I attempt to read a book outside my comfort zone. Mystic River is the only fiction book that I devoured within a few days, and that was a long time ago. Crime stories, why don't I just read more? It's like fiction freaks me out for some reason, but really it points to this thick head I have about stories.
I constantly feel pulled in multiple directions; the comedian in me, the empath in me, the storyteller in me are always imagining, something. I seem to only write from experience, from real life, and rarely travel into a space beyond what I've known or seen. Science Fiction writers must have the most interesting brains.
My world is the real world, and within it, there are enough unknowns that creativity can fill in the blanks. At least it has for me, and has offered up opportunities to explore its depths and its brightest but also darkest corners. I suppose fiction lives there too.
Saturday thoughts,
Katie
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